


Exposures

by Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [68]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-16
Updated: 2007-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the air, Nantucket is weathered by winter still—a wide and generous curve of land held up in a grey ocean under a grey sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposures

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Jenn's [Nantucket 'verse](http://dogeared.livejournal.com/97845.html) | Thanks to [Cate](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com) for audiencing.

**f/128**

From the air, Nantucket is weathered by winter still—a wide and generous curve of land held up in a grey ocean under a grey sky. It's only a certain quality of light, a shift in the direction of the currents, the tang and taste of salt in the air when you breathe in deep that hold the promise of a new year. Overhead, birds cry and call to one another, twisting in the morning breeze that will bring spring and summer with it.

**f/64**

On a beach on the north shore, three people walk and wait for morning—a woman alone, head bowed, hands in her pockets; two men standing close together. Out to sea, whales crest out of the blue-grey waters, sleek curves of power that draw the eye, that steal the breath; one man points out at them, calls out something to his companion, and overhead the sky breaks open, bright blue and dawn gold.

**f/32**

The dogs run around her ankles as she walks; they're small, ridiculous-looking things with long pedigrees and longer names, and their shrill yapping makes her head ache. They won't come when they're called, either, won't come to heel or even follow her when she she tugs on their leads. He bought them for her two weeks before he left her for that bitch; she doesn't know why he presented them to her, but then again, she doesn't know why she brought them with her, why she's kept them.

As she heads back up the beach, she passes two men—one tall and sleek, all fierce dark colour, who looks like he was born to live on the ocean's edge; one paler, stockier, nose buried in a brightly coloured fleece—who are trailing a big black dog in their wake. One stumbles slightly on a drift of loose sand; the other rests a steadying hand at the small of his back. One smiles. She hates them with a sudden fury that surprises her, ignores their greetings, and redoubles her pace along the stretch of sand, hurrying back to the empty holiday house built as a home for two.

**f/11**

Mid-morning in a quiet house, and Cash is asleep in the middle of a sunbeam; his limbs twitch against the kitchen floor as he chases cotton-tailed rabbits through his dreams and over the sandy dunes of Dionis Beach. Planck naps nestled against him, sleek tabby fur pressed tightly a tangled black stomach, a neat compression of form next to Cash's wild sprawl. No sound but the clock on the windowsill ticking, two hours too fast, or Cash whimpering softly as a ghostly rabbit stays forever out of reach—and then the stillness is broken by a sudden moan, deep and heartfelt, from behind the closed bedroom door. Planck's eyes slit open, and Cash's ears prick up—but then there is nothing but quiet again, nothing but a peace that fills the house as surely as does the pale, wintry sunlight. Planck stretches, and Cash rolls over, and they both sleep on.

**f/6**

On the bedside table: dog-eared issues of _National Geographic_, one folded open carefully to an article on surfing in Australia. One glass of water, half-empty, condensation beading on the outside of the glass, trickling down to wet an envelope postmarked Canada. One odd blue sock with a hole in the big toe. A battered, third-hand copy of _War and Peace_ stacked on top of a John Grisham novel; a notebook full of equations that could split the sky if turned a certain way, twist time and space so that empty vacuum is a field of blue and impossible cities are only a step beyond it. One slice of green apple, browning slightly on a side-plate; a handful of coins. Rodney's glasses, half-folded, discarded without thought to land where they may when John reached out to touch his hand.

**f/4**

A big bed in a sunlit room, with plain white pillowcases and tangled, sticky sheets and limbs splayed everywhere in the aftermath of loving. Fingers moving in a sleepy caress against bare skin; open-mouthed kiss against a shoulder where freckles still bloom through a faded tan; one hand splayed wide against the sweat-warm curve of a back; the slow press of hips against hips though ardour's spent, a rare unfocused pleasure to be enjoyed without direction. No sound; no speech; no need for words.

**f/1**

In his sleep, John's body curves more closely around Rodney's, chest to belly to thigh; in his sleep, Rodney smiles.


End file.
